


Kings for a Little Time

by maychorian



Series: Kings for a Little Time [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Supernatural
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, the boys get some rest in a nice place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 16:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19016230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: "Dude, of all the ways I imagined you coming for me, that was never one of them.""With a giant talking lion? Yeah, me neither."Originally posted to ff.n 9/10/2008.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're curious, no, the theology of this doesn't really work at all. Let's just pretend that it does, hmm? Emotionally, at least, it seems to make sense.

They sat with their backs to a huge, old tree that was grown into the walls of Cair Paravel, spreading broad, sheltering branches that still let the sunlight shine through, warm on their faces. They gazed down on this realm, on fields of golden grain waving in the breeze, on meadows full of celebrating creatures, on a sparkling sea where mermaids frolicked. They lounged against smooth, warm bark as comfortable as the softest leather recliners, back in the world neither of them remembered very well.

Most importantly, they sat shoulder to shoulder, letting their upper arms press against each other just that little bit. Just enough so that both knew that the other was there. Just enough so that the warmth from each man could seep through velvet tunic sleeves to the other one, so they could feel the small shifts of relaxed breath, feel the life in the other without looking. They only really felt completely at peace when they sat like this, and the people around them seemed to understand, and left them the time and space to do it without embarrassment.

"Dude…" Dean said after a time, slowly, feeling the words strangely in a throat still raw with old screams. "Of all the ways I imagined you coming for me, that was never one of them."

"With a giant talking lion? Yeah, me neither." Sam leaned his head more heavily back against the tree, looking up into the pattern of sunlight and leaves above, criss-crossed with dark branches. The lattice of it might have reminded him of a cage or a web, in another place, another time, but there was nothing here of danger, darkness, death. He saw only beauty.

"I still don't get how that worked. I…I made a deal. The contract was sealed."

"Aslan said that there was a deeper magic, one that they did not know. The giving of an innocent life for another is…it breaks the power of such contracts. Makes them never have any power at all. We didn't have to fight our way in, you know. I guess you don't remember—you were pretty out of it."

"No." Dean swallowed. With the space of a few days between him and Hell, his bruised spirit was a little more able to look back, to try to understand. He wanted to understand. But only here, under this tree, this sun, with his brother beside him—only here could his mind even form the questions. "Tell me what happened."

"Aslan just looked at the gates, and they opened. I walked with him. We went in, and…and we took you out. That was all." Sam's voice was raw, too, a little broken, pulling the words out in ragged chunks.

He didn't say what it was like, walking down into the pit, into the screams of the tormented, the stench of rot and filth, finding his brother chained there, semi-unconscious, unable to even whisper his name with a throat torn from months of screaming. The disbelief in Dean's eyes, thinking Sam was another hallucination, the way he shrank away from them, even from Aslan, who radiated  _good_  with unbelievable power and presence.

"Because the contract had no power." Dean repeated the explanation with wonder, trying to understand, trying to believe.

"Yeah. They didn't take you by rights. They…they stole you. And so Aslan just set it back. Made things whole. Apparently it's, it's what he does."

"And you just…carried me out."

"Yeah."

Curled up in Sam's arms like a little child, as a matter of fact, but there was no need to mention that. Aslan had offered to carry Dean on his back, but Sam hadn't been able to let go of his brother just yet. The thin, wasted body in his arms hadn't been heavy. He had followed Aslan, keeping his eyes only that mountainous golden figure, bathed in the light that came off him, stepping carefully in his paw prints. Into and out of Hell, that's how he'd managed it.

Dean had slept for two days, had barely managed a word for two more, only staring. At his surroundings, at the strange physicians who attended him, at the food they brought, but mostly at Sam. His green eyes were sunken in his pale face, freckles standing out in sharp relief, and his hands shook almost all the time. Sam ached to reassure him that all this was real, that he was safe, that it was over, but he didn't have the words. He was still learning to believe it, himself.

This was the first day Dean had been able to move outside of his chamber, though he seemed to enjoy the sunlight on his face. They had walked slowly around the castle, once, then settled here under the tree. Sam suspected that the tree had a name—he thought maybe they all did. He would have to learn it, and thank the tree later for sheltering his brother so kindly.

Sam's mind wandered back over their earlier conversation, and hitched on something Dean had said. "Dean, did you say… You imagined me coming for you?"

Dean sighed, shifting slightly so he leaned against Sam just that little bit more. "Yeah, man. It's all I did. I think it's all that kept me from going crazy."

"Oh." Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn't go down. Something told him that only here, only under this tree, in this gorgeous, magical world, with a giant talking lion watching over them from the next hill—only here would his close-mouthed older brother ever admit something so radically, insanely personal. And that was yet another gift Narnia had given him.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm okay." Dean pressed against his shoulder a little harder.

They sat there in silence, just luxuriating in the warmth. Eventually Sam glanced down at his brother, and saw that Dean was asleep, his head resting on Sam's shoulder. That last little bit of pressure—that had been Dean putting his head down. Sam looked straight ahead, blinking hard and fast. Then he tilted his head, resting his cheek against his brother's hair.

Dean slept soundly and well for quite some time. Later, though, Sam felt the sleepy, pre-waking stirrings and lifted his head, and when Dean sat up straight, blinking and smacking his lips, he pretended that it had only been a few minutes. Dean nodded absently, and took Sam's offered hand to help him to his feet so they could go inside for dinner.

Neither mentioned that the sun was practically setting, now, though it had been overhead when Dean fell asleep "just a few minutes ago."

X

Dean gradually regained his strength, and eventually Sam felt okay leaving him alone for an hour or two so he could go explore the castle archives. There were mounds of books and scrolls and artifacts, histories, journals from past kings and queens, philosophical treatises, maps of the surrounding territories and of the night sky. An old dwarf named Kernhorn maintained the archive, and he was always glad to see "Prince Sam," as the Narnians called him, eager to help him learn more about this marvelous new domain.

Eventually, Dean, too, felt strong and well enough to go on his own little excursions. It took him a couple of weeks before he could talk to anyone but Sam, but at last he regained something of his old charm and gregariousness. Dean liked to walk in the woods near Cair Paravel. As Sam had expected, he quickly gathered a large following among the nymphs.

When asked, though, he said that he was just going to visit Mrs. Beaver for more soup. "That onion soup is  _awesome,"_  he told Sam, face gravely earnest. This was serious business. "So is the mushroom. And the cheese. And the barley-leek. They're all really, really good, man. You should come sometime."

Sam grinned, glad that Dean's famous appetite was returning. He'd been rather listless and unenthusiastic in the first couple of weeks, not exactly picky, just uninterested. Dean still ate more slowly than he used to, though, savoring every bite.

He talked less, too, and didn't smile as much.

But Dean was definitely recovering, and the Narnians were starting to talk about having a coronation, again. They'd been waiting quite patiently, but were now eager to get on with it, to have two sons of Adam on the throne once more. Sam always gently deflected the excited plan-makers, saying maybe next week, or tomorrow, or when Dean doesn't get out of breath going up five steps, or he might faint on his way up to the throne. But he and Dean should probably get going before things got that serious. Sam didn't want to disappoint the people who had been so amazingly kind and gentle to them, but they couldn't stay. They never stayed. And the Winchester boys would make terrible rulers, anyway, nowhere near as wonderful as the men and women he was reading about in the archives.

He didn't want to say anything to Dean about it, didn't want to break the spell of peace gently bringing his brother back to health. But one day while they sat on a balcony railing, looking out over the white-tipped waves, Dean cleared his throat and glanced at him quickly, then looked away.

"We should go back, shouldn't we?"

The question hung in the air between them and sank slowly to the marble floor, heavy and merciless.

Sam looked down, fiddling with the gold lacing on his tunic's wrist-cuff. "I guess."

"They're fighting a war back home. And we're here playing around with talking bunnies."

He looked up, eyes wide. "Dude, you met a talking rabbit? I haven't seen one of those yet."

Dean smirked. "You should get out more often, get your nose out of those dusty books." He chuckled aloud at Sam's wide-eyed look, a true, Dean Winchester laugh, though short and quiet. "Hey, look at you, all gaga over the idea of talking bunnies!" His face went earnest again. "I'll introduce you, man. His name is Cinderfluff."

Sam frowned, suddenly suspicious. "You're pulling my leg."

"No, man, I swear. Cinderfluff. He's awesome."

Sam shook his head, faintly incredulous. He couldn't tell if Dean was kidding or not.

"But what I was saying. About the demon war back home."

"Yeah." The gold lacing was slowly starting to come apart under his relentless picking.

"Sammy, they want us to be  _kings._  Both of us. At the same time. Isn't that a little weird?"

He attempted a smile. "It would be weirder if they wanted us to be a king and a queen."

"Nah, I think that would actually work better for you, you giant girl."

Sam lowered his head, feeling his smile turn genuine.

"But seriously, man. In no way are we cut out for this job. We're better off doing what we're good at, saving people, killing evil things. They don't need us for that here. They've had what, one witch? And she's dead. And we know that they need us back home."

 _Back home,_  yeah. Dean kept using that phrase, but it felt so abstract. They'd never really had a home, not in the way most people meant the term. The closest Sam had ever gotten was that tiny, crowded apartment with Jess. And he knew that for Dean, home just meant where Dad was. The longer they stayed here in Narnia, the more those memories faded, and less Sam felt any attachment to the dark, blood-drenched world they had left behind.

Sam looked up, meeting Dean's earnest gaze. "But why do we always have to be where we're  _needed_ , Dean? Why can't we be somewhere we're  _wanted,_  just for a little while? They've given us so much—they gave you back to me. Why can't we let them have what they want from us?" He was surprised by his own vehemence, surprised to realize that his reluctance to bring up this subject was not out of concern for Dean, but because he just didn't want to go.

Dean sighed. "Because I don't know if I have it in me, Sam. I don't know if I can be what they want. They call me 'Prince Dean,' you know. It's friggin' weird. I don't know if can do it." He snorted. "King Dean, they'll call me. King Dean the what? They talk so glowingly about High King Peter the Magnificent, and Edmund the Just, and Lucy the Valiant. I'm gonna end up as Dean the Dubious or something like that, I just know it."

The mention of the most recent kings and queens sparked something in Sam's mind. He poked up a finger in a "hold that thought" gesture and dashed inside, returning in a moment with a huge, leather-bound tome. "Here, let me show you something."

He propped the book up on the railing and started flipping the pages of the giant chronicle, dense with text and hand-drawn illustrations. The last quarter of the book was empty pages, he knew, history waiting to be written. But he was looking for a particular drawing…

There it was. Sam tapped his finger on the carefully inked sketch of four children, Peter, Edmund, Susan, and Lucy, shortly after they had come to Narnia. It was almost like a candid photo, their expressions unguarded, staring uncertainly around themselves at what the accompanying text described as a snow-blanketed pine forest.

Dean glanced at the picture incuriously, then blinked and stared harder, leaning down to get a closer look. "Hey, are they wearing…?"

"Yeah. They're wearing clothes from our world. But not modern fashions, Dean. From the descriptions and eyewitness accounts I've read, it sounds like they came through soon after the start of World War II. They were British schoolchildren sent to stay with a man in the countryside, and it was there that they found a portal and came through to Narnia. And look at this." He flipped backward this time, to the very front of the book, and found another, similar illustration. "King Frank the First and his wife, Queen Helen. Look at the hat, Dean. It looks like a turn-of-the-century style. And this was a thousand years before High King Peter and his siblings, by Narnian reckoning anyway."

Dean sat back, realization dawning on his face. "So that means…"

"Time flows differently here. We could be here for years, and it might only be a month or so in our world. Maybe less. And Kernhorn says that all of the people from our world who end up here… It's not just random happenstance. They're drawn, called."

"Man, they don't just want us here. They  _want_  us here."

Sam closed the heavy book and hugged it to his chest, thoughtful and intense. "It's Aslan. He's the one in charge. I thought I was just hopping randomly from world to world, but… I'm not so sure now. You didn't see it when I met him, Dean." He looked up at his brother earnestly, almost begging him to understand. "He wasn't surprised at all. And the things he said to me…"

Dean's face twisted in what he probably meant to be a sardonic expression, but ended up looking only wistful. "Yeah, I haven't gotten to talk to your giant magical lion, remember? He was already off visiting the Northern Wastes or something when I finally had the guts to talk to anyone."

"He's not my magical lion, Dean. I don't think he belongs to anyone except himself."

"Yeah, okay." Dean looked away, back over the sea again. Two mermaids were chasing each other through shallow water, beautiful in their playfulness, but the horndog look Sam might have expected at another time was completely absent. "Maybe you're right. Maybe things have been all worked out for us, just this once. Maybe we can be kings, for a little time."

Sam nodded softly. "For a little time," he echoed. "I still know that spell, you know. We could leave whenever we want."

"Yeah. Anytime."


	2. Chapter 2

Narnia was changing them. Sam could see it in his brother and feel it in himself. Maybe it was something in the air, the water, both so incredibly pure. Maybe it was the atmosphere of peace, the kindness of the inhabitants, the beauty of the nature surrounding them, or the undeniable white magic that underpinned everything about this world. Whatever it was, it was powerful.

Both of them felt stronger and healthier than ever, once Dean had fully recovered from his time in Hell. They could run farther, jump higher, laugh longer. All of their senses were sharp, fully tuned in to enjoying what each moment had to offer. They poured themselves into each waking hour and slept hard and soundly every night.

There was a joy in Sam now that made waking up every day a new pleasure. And he knew that the same joy was in Dean, too, because while Dean didn't smile as often anymore, when he did it was almost always real, full and wide, not sarcastic or ironic or false, hiding his true feelings.

Everything about Dean seemed a little deeper, a little softer and gentler. He'd never been a harsh man, but it astonished Sam now to watch how he interacted with the talking animals, the dryads and naiads, the fauns and dwarfs and centaurs. There was a respect there, a generosity and giving, that had always before been reserved for his family alone.

Once, Sam joked lightly about Dean "getting it on" with the nymphs, and his brother made a face, as if the thought had never, ever occurred to him. "Dude, they're made of wood. How would that even work? Besides, it would just be wrong."

Sam leaned back a little in confusion. Okay, he'd totally been kidding, but he had thought that his brother would tease back, not bristle like this, so instantly defensive of his woodland groupies. "Hey, man, I'm just saying that they really, really like you."

"It's not their fault, Sam. It's…um, it's pollinating season. They're, they're blossoming. Quit being such a jerk!"

He stood up and stormed off, Sam staring after him in mute astonishment. That was not how he had expected that conversation to go at all.

And goodness, Dean didn't even swear anymore. Now that he thought about it, neither did Sam. It was as if Narnia was turning them into children.

No, it was turning them child-like. And that was okay. Sam could still remember where they had come from, the death and darkness and blood, and he knew that Dean still had nightmares. The Winchesters weren't innocent, and they both knew it. But they felt free, here, they felt right and good. Everything in Narnia was simple, clear, and that wasn't a bad thing. It was as if they had left behind everything they didn't need here.

Plans for the coronation continued apace. There were fittings, discussions about what kind of jewels should be in the crowns, and protracted taste-testing sessions in the kitchens to prepare for the feast afterward. Dean particularly insisted on the last one, and the cheerful family of talking hedgehogs that ran the kitchen was happy to oblige.

A few days before the ceremony, a cacophony of cheers outside alerted them to the return of Aslan. They went down to the courtyard to meet him, Dean standing shyly a bit behind his younger brother. It felt completely natural to kneel down before the magnificent lion, bending their heads in fealty. Sam felt the touch of Aslan's breath on the back of his neck, the massive mane brushing his face, as the great lion accepted their obeisance by bending his head to meet theirs.

When they rose to their feet, Aslan stood nose to nose with Dean, deep golden eyes gazing into nervous green. "Walk with me, Dean, son of Adam."

Dean could only nod, mute and helpless as a kitten. There was no resisting that voice, those eyes.

Sam watched them walk away, offering Dean an encouraging smile when his brother threw a wild glance back at him, eyes wide and blank with terror. Yeah, it was scary, walking with that gigantic figure of concentrated power and awe. But it was good, too. Dean would be fine.

Still, Sam made his way up to the rampart to keep an eye on them, watching Aslan and Dean as they strolled leisurely down to the beach and picked their way among the black rocks. He could see them talking, mostly Aslan at first. But Dean responded more and more confidently, the anxious hunch of his shoulders gradually loosening, fading away. Dean said something Sam knew was a joke, face twisted in that familiar lop-sided grin, and Aslan threw back his head and let out a roaring, rumbling laugh that was audible miles away and echoed off the surrounding cliffs. Sam pressed his hands over his ears and ducked down below the castle wall, grinning madly. That was his brother, one minute scared out of his wits, the next making giant talking lions laugh at his stupid jokes.

When he stood back up and looked for them again, Dean and Aslan had made their way to the headland, bathed in golden afternoon sun. Sam could see them with incredible clarity, as if he was standing right there, and though he couldn't hear what they were saying, he knew what was happening. Dean's face was broken open, vulnerable, tears streaming down his cheeks. Aslan's face was magnificent, kind, sympathy pouring from his eyes. Dean slowly dropped to his knees and lowered his head, and Aslan bent down to nuzzle his hair, as gently and powerfully loving as a mother bear with a cub.

Sam ducked down again, and this time sat on the cool stone, his back to the crenellated wall, and covered his mouth with his hand to keep his own tears inside. His love for his brother threatened to overwhelm him in that moment, along with the surging adoration he felt for that kingly lion. Dean had been needing something, something Sam couldn't give him, for such a very long time. And he knew, he  _knew,_  that Aslan had finally been able to provide it. His gratitude was so great that he was momentarily afraid that it would simply lift him up and carry him away, he felt so light, so free and expansive and glad to be in this world.

That night they played chess in the firelight, in a large room that was open to the sweet darkness outside, yet somehow felt as intimate as the smallest alcove. Dean was distracted and barely even put up a fight, letting Sam checkmate him time and time again—usually he was prone to wild, unpredictable moves that at least forced Sam to think for a bit before destroying him utterly. Each time, though, he simply gave Sam a sunny grin and started resetting the board, saying, "I'll get you this time!"

He was so relaxed and content, so clearly, deeply happy and comfortable in his own skin, that Sam dared to ask. "What did Aslan say? I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. What he said was just for you. But, y'know. If you want to."

Dean looked up, considering, turning a knight gently between his fingers. "Well, one thing he said wasn't just for me. He said that you were right, that when we leave Narnia we'll be back in our world only a little bit after we left. And he said that we wouldn't be kings here for long, that it would be a short time, but a good one, and Narnia would always remember us fondly."

"Well. That's good, I guess." Sam stared down at the board, trying to hide his disappointment. Not at the news—he'd suspected that their reign would not be a long one. But at what Dean wasn't saying.

"Hey." Dean reached over and poked him with the knight piece. "Look at me, Sammy."

He looked up, surprised to find Dean still smiling that deep, full smile. "What?"

"You wanted to know what else he said, right? Well, okay."

Sam sat up straighter, giving his brother his full attention. But Dean suddenly went shy, peering down at the white pieces on his side of the board, adjusting each one into the very center of their squares. At last Sam couldn't take it anymore. "Well? What did he say?"

Dean met his eyes, not smiling now, though the contentment and relaxation was still there. "He told me that we would be good kings. That I would be a good king. That I…that I was worthy. And… And I believed him, Sam. I believed him."

"Well, yeah." Sam smiled back, relieved and warmed from his toes to the top of his head. "You don't  _not_  believe the giant magical talking lion. He's  _Aslan."_

"Exactly." Dean laughed softly and made the opening move, jumping his knight over the row of pawns. "He's Aslan."

X

The coronation was a riotous affair, except for the approximately two minutes in which the actual ceremony took place. A hush fell over the assembled crowd as Sam and Dean made their way solemnly to the stones on the top of the cliff overlooking Cair Paravel and the sea, the trains of their robes carried by various talking animals and dwarfs. There they sat, and a centaur—the same who had met Sam when he first arrived—gently lowered the crowns onto their heads.

Aslan, standing behind them, rumbled in a voice that crashed against the hills and rebounded to the plains, "I give you your new rulers, sons of Adam, now kings of Narnia, for this little time, only, but a good one, and brave. King Dean the Generous. King Samuel the Wise. Treat them well, and they will love you greatly."

The Narnians roared their approval, leaping and cheering. The applause was thunderous as Dean and Sam rose, grinning fit to split their faces. The rush of delight was heady, overpowering. Better than the sweetest, strongest wine.

But there was wine, too, at the party afterward. Plenty of it. Sam and Dean wandered through the crowd of celebrants, talking, laughing, drinking and eating. They danced with the dryads to music played by fairies and wrestled on the ground with eager cubs, the parents looking on fondly. They took part in races and competitions and games for which there seemed to be no rules, grinning when they won and laughing loudly when they lost, which was more often.

At one point, Dean got into a drinking match with five already-inebriated dwarfs, and Sam looked away, hoping to see Aslan. The great lion lay at the edge of the crowd, badger and mouse children sleeping between his paws, a young female centaur braiding his mane in small, careful plaits. Sam made his way slowly toward him, frequently interrupted by this Narnian or that to toast or talk or laugh at some raucous jest.

At last, though, he made it to Aslan and knelt by his paws, looking up into his face. Aslan looked back, meeting his earnest gaze. "You have a question for me, Samuel the Wise?"

"I just wondered…you told Dean that our time here would be short. That's all right—I don't ask for more. I just wondered, how will we know it's time to leave?"

"Ah. Well, there will be no need for you to use that crude, clumsy spell, son of Adam."

Sam smiled sheepishly. Of course Aslan had seen what he was trying to hide even from himself.

"When you have taken all you need from Narnia, and given back all that Narnia requires of you, then it will be time for you to leave. The door will appear and you will pass through it, full and satisfied, carrying nothing with you."

"But when will that be?"

"Just the right amount of time, my son. Then you and your brother will return to your world and finish your task there. You will be rested and well, and fully equipped to face the terrible things you must fight. That is what Narnia will give to you."

"And what will we give in return, Aslan?"

"Why, everything that you have, of course." A low chuckle tumbled through Aslan's chest, more like a purr than a roar. "Be not dismayed. It will cost you nothing, and cause you no pain. Already you are well on the way, as is your brother."

Sam looked over at Dean, who was laughing uproariously at some dwarf joke, tears of laughter squeezing from his eyes. "Yes, I suppose he is." He leaned his head on Aslan's shoulder and was still for time, just being.

Later Dean drew him back into the crowd, grinning, pulling on his arm. "Sam, Sam! I told you I'd introduce you!" He led the way to a tall gray rabbit wearing a breastplate, a sword on his belt. He looked like a stern beast, his face set in a warning expression. "Didn't I tell ya? This is Cinderfluff! He's awesome."

Cinderfluff looked Sam up and down and crossed his paws over his chest. "Hmph. I see we have some work to do."

"He's gonna teach us to use these!" Dean patted the sword hilt at his hip. They were both wearing them—it was part of the whole king get-up.

"I thought…" Sam faltered. "I thought they were decorative."

The rabbit snorted through his nose. His pink, delicate nose. "Not hardly, young sire. Don't you know that the northern giants are getting restless again? We may have to sally forth inside the year. You must be ready!" He unsheathed his sword with a ringing swoop and hoisted it into the air. "FOR NARNIA!"

"FOR NARNIA!" roared the crowd around them, unaware of the conversation but perfectly happy to take part in some gratuitous cheering.

Once the noise died down a little Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder, all but bouncing from one foot to the other in excitement and delight. "Didja hear that, Sam?  _Giants._  There are  _giants_  in Narnia. And they're  _bad._  So we get to  _fight them."_

Sam grinned back. Looking at Dean Winchester now, with his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, full and flush with health and the best food and drink in the universe, it was almost impossible to imagine that little more than a month ago he'd been pale, sick, and silent, barely able to walk from one side of a room to another.

However long their time here would be, he knew that it was going to be good. And everything they gave—"King Dean the Generous," he remembered with silent joy—would be returned to them tenfold.

"Yeah, Dean," he said gently. "I heard. That sounds great."

Dean squeezed his shoulder and turned away, already discussing a northern campaign with Cinderfluff, gleefully quaffing more ale.

Sam looked back to Aslan, but the great lion was gone. That was all right, though. Sam knew he was still around, somewhere.

They would be kings for a little time, but a good one, and a brave. They would return ready for the battle ahead of them, and for the first time, Sam truly believed that they would win it. Everything was going to turn out right.

The End


End file.
